tears on the sleeve of a man
don't want to be a boy today
heard the eternal footman
bought himself a bike to race
and greg he writes letters and burns his cds
they say you were something in those formative years
hold onto nothing as fast as you can
well still pretty good year

maybe a bright sandy beach
is gonna bring you back
maybe not so now you're off
you're gonna see america
well let me tell you something about america
pretty good year
some things are melting now
well what's it gonna take till my baby's alright

and greg he writes letters with his birthday pen
sometimes he's aware that they're drawing him in
lucy was pretty your best friend agreed
well still pretty good year

Sunday, November 10, 2002
01:17 a.m.
dong resin: you have a jack in the box?
me: yup, lots
dong resin: they seem...short bus
me: no no, just misunderstood
dong resin: right, right
me: i like their commercials
dong resin: I don't know. I don't trust places with fucking clowns
me: right, but see it is a mocking sort of anti-clown, which is cool
dong resin: I doubt their ablity to be mocking
me: not ronald, he's a pussy, jack is badass
dong resin: I H8 ronald..I H8ed him worse as wee youngn'
dong resin: seemed reeeeeeal gay to be surrounded by kids like that
dong resin: I liked the "burger king". remember him? had a beard?
me: i liked that purple thing, what was its name?
dong resin: grimace
me: yeah, grimace
me: grimace is cool
dong resin: I like grimace `cause I didn't know what the fuck he was, and neither did the people who created him, I like that in a corporate icon
dong resin: there's a whole fucking design team and some animate purple stuff is what they come up with
dong resin: "what is this bob?"
dong resin: "fuck if I know, dave. call it a grimace."

if it ain't brokeSaturday, November 9, 2002
03:45 a.m.
I'm disappointed with Mario Party 4. Yes, yes the graphics are better and well, that may be the only significant improvement on the video board game I can come up with. In Mario Party 3, as well in those that came before, the object of the game was simple: get the most stars and you win. There are myriad ways to accomplish this goal, none more effective than FUCKING YOUR OPPONENTS IN THE ASS. This is how the top trophy is won. So what they are watching your dog while you vacation, the slobbering pooch can starve if Steve gets pissed he is getting violated this turn. Steal the coins your buddies worked turns to get with your freshly-earned Boo Bell. Send Bowser after their buster asses and see what the fire-breathing dinosaur leaves them with.

The game could change completely in a single roll. Chance Time spaces and countless powerful items were available which put the ball in even the 4th place player's court. In Mario Party 3 there was the very fun Duel Mode where players could battle one on one taking Chain Chomps and Ghosts and others as their offensive and defensive teamsmen. The game often came down to the crucial Happening Star; who landed on the most Happening spaces was anyone's guess since they were liberally strewn about almost every board.

In the new version the game is all about strategy. The mini-games are more difficult and the items are fucking weak. None of them are very cool and the two most frequently available only make you big or small--they are mostly inconsequential. The stars are harder to get to as the boards are more intricate and so the scores look less like football numbers and more like soccer. Less scoring means less fun, at least in this instance. Without the fuck-you items that made Mario Party 3 so fun the Party Star (they no longer call it "Winner") goes to whoever is best at it. In order to win consistently at Mario Party 3, you have to be very good--winning often came with practice and acquired skill. But on MP3 a brand new player could win big on his very first game, sweeping all stars with the flip of a swith. With 4, no beginner playing with a seasoned pro stands a chance.

troubledThursday, November 7, 2002
10:04 p.m.
A letter written to a girl named Slurrr by her German friend, Felix:

Date: Wed, 06 Nov 2002 12:11:40 +0100 (CET)
From: felix
Subject: What the f*** is wrong with the American public???

Hey Sweet,

I just read about the Republican's victory in the election.
What is wrong with the people you share a country with?
They have never truly understood the concept of peace,
have they? They elected this total idiot who likes to play
war as if he still was in fucking Texas, but is risking world
war three. What does he think will happen next?
I'm sure you have heard of the Bali bombing. There are
so many places where terrorism has happened: NYC, Djerba, Bali...
and if Bush strikes against the Irak, terrorism will strike back
and it will strike against any country that belongs to the NATO
or the west.
I read this week that there have been concrete plans by Al-Quaida
to strike in Germany, which have been discovered in advance.
I can tell you, I'm pretty scared what will happen once the war
in Irak starts. After all, Germany is much closer than the US...
Does peace really not count anything over there?

hire brittneyWednesday, November 6, 2002
02:48 p.m.
I have posted a fully updated resume to the right. Now, let's all get busy finding me work. Also, feel free to suggest changes or additions or point out any mistakes.

where the kids aren'tWednesday, November 6, 2002
01:12 p.m.
There has got to be a playground nearby. I've gone looking and I can't find it but it must be there. During the day, I keep it quiet, the sound of tapping on the keyboard, the bubbling of the coffee maker, no music, no television. I hear the sounds of the somewhat busy street below me, but they shift. Passing cars, talking pedestrains, a hammer. The sound most constant is the sound of children softly screaming. I hear them, barely, high-pitched squeals. I'll start to think it wind in trees then a pause and laughter, distinctly a child's laugh, followed by the breeze screams again.

The fun they must be having, you'd think it were an amusement park. Sometimes I will hear a long cry, one of them must have fallen down, or a yell and if I tried hard enough I might could make out a word.

It is a surreal sound to accompany your days, the loud hush of kids at play, yet comforting. Except, when after looking for the tenth time, I consider there is no playground.

nice guy landlordWednesday, November 6, 2002
12:37 a.m.
I have the world's nicest landlord. When I first viewed my studio back in August it was the first place I saw. I told him I'd look more and let him know and when I called a week later saying I wanted in he sounded genuinely thrilled I'd become his tenant and kept repeating, "I'm so glad."

I showed up to sign the lease and he glanced over my half-filled out application then stuck it in his pocket and handed me the keys. The carpet was freshly shampooed, the place immaculate and he left me with his business card and a dimpled smile.

He speaks in a hushed voice, and waves good-naturedly whenever we pass. He asks how I like the apartment and seems concerned I've had no complaints so far. He asks if the ceiling fan works well and if I have plenty of hot water. (I don't, except with time, but I dare not speak up as it is barely a bother.) He stops by to pick up rent the first time it is due, presenting me with a detailed map of how to reach his office for subsequent payments.

This Friday the first I took a look at my checkbook and just couldn't do it that day. I had three shifts ahead of me that would more than cover the lacking money, so I waited. First thing Monday I hopped over to his office and asked his assistant if I owed a late fee. She called to ask him since he was out of the office at which time he asked to speak to me.

My pulse raced a little due to past experiences with tyrannical landlords and I took the reciever to my ear. After asking about the place he said he just wanted to tell me that whenever I can get the rent to him is fine. He knows I work on a tip-based salary and if I need an extra week, no sweat.

Then he bid me goodbye and I left the office where I pay my rent not feeling poorer but richer.

not blown awayTuesday, November 5, 2002
10:36 p.m.I saw Spirited Away yesterday after weeks of putting it off. I saw Princess Mononoke when it was issued on DVD and enjoyed it. I didn't foam at the mouth as I expected what with Neil Gaiman on the screenplay, but it kept my attention. When I had them, I saw it playing on the premium movie channels many times yet I never bothered to watch it again.

I read all the hype surrounding Spirited Away, the almost unanimous good reviews and figured I'd be equally impressed with Miyazaki's newest. Instead, I was rather underwhelmed.

The art in this anime flick is phenomenal. Spirited Away creates an atmosphere of wonder and whimsy in its lush landscapes and other-worldy beasts. The colors and textures are a rich spectacle but the movie lacked any emotion that I could sense.

I found Chihiro's tendancy toward tripping and falling charming, but I just didn't care whether she disappeared or not. I give a rat's ass about any of the characters, in fact. I watched in boredom at the trite old good vs. evil tale where "true love" breaks the most powerful of spells and kept thinking to myself "It sure does have pretty colors."

Is there something I don't get?

Lou Lumenick of the New York Post writes, "Hayao Miyazaki's breathtakingly beautiful and poetic Spirited Away-- a Japanese cross between Alice in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz-- is such a landmark in animation that labeling it a masterpiece almost seems inadequate." And C.W. Nevius of the San Fransisco Chronicle proclaims Spirited Away, "A lovely, evocative tour de force."

she looked down into her strawFriday, November 1, 2002
04:30 p.m.
She waits for iced coffee, the girl at the counter with the nose piercing. She has the most arresting blue eyes I have ever seen. They are punctuated by her dyed, jet black hair and matching ensemble. She carries a red round purse shaped like a tomato.
Uncharacteristically, I get the sudden urge to tell her--to let her know that her big, prysmatic eyes are stunning. Then I figure she probably knows that already and sip in silence.

I learned very quickly that if you have to explain your costume to everyone, it isn't so much fun. There go my plans to dress as the Log Lady next year.

Some comments so far:

"Are you Janeane Garafolo?"
"I know! That chick from Ghost World!"
"You look just like my friend Madeline. She's into indie rock."
"Tell me you did not cut off your hair!" [Come on now, this wig cost $5.99.]
"Punk is dead."
"Are you a raver?"
"Hey, Saves the Day, can I get another beer?" [Ha!]
"I triple dog dare you to go to the Red Rose tonight, Feable Weiner is playing--they'll be out in droves."

It's gotten wear-socks-to-bed cold. It's getting the kind of cold that keeps you cocooned in covers for an extra hour; the kind of cold that isn't so cold when someone's chest is on your back, their breath on your neck.

pet peeve #32567Monday, October 28, 2002
01:19 p.m.
Yesterday I am enjoying a salad topped with almonds before my closing bartending shift when one of the part-time managers Andrea strolls by and asks at a subdued level if I have any Midol. I shake my head sympathetically no, and go back to pretending to watch a football game, when one of the bus boys--probably 18 or so--mutters, "What a question."

I let this comment run over me for about two minutes before I turned to the kid and said "What do you mean?" He stuttered grinning for a second then said, "I don't know, seems like a weird thing to ask with me sitting right here."

Now, anyone who can read a list of ingredients knows Midol is nothing more than pain reliever plus caffeine, a combo much more effective for PMS than just Tylenol or Aleve. It isn't an aspirin dressed up in pink--there is a distinct difference.

Yet, this is not the part with which I take issue. Rather, what on earth could have been so foul or offensive about that question that he felt the need to comment? The way many men react to the very notion of menstruation is absurd, as if more than half the population should live in secrecy and shame 5 days a month so the manly men don't have to know it exists. I mean, periods are no fun, for sure, and they are a bit on the icky side, but the revulsion it inspires in mankind really drives me fucking crazy. If you consider yourself masculine, a "real man," then surely you can handle conversation about a menstral period.

It isn't as if we are sharing all the details, either. A tampon commercial pops on television and some yahoo remarks that "that is what women's magazines are made for," and I can't help but wonder what they are all so scared of.

The state of Florida does incite people. It gives them big ideas. They don't exactly drift there: They come on purpose--maybe to start a new life, because Florida seems like a fresh start, or to reward themselves for having had a hardworking life, because Florida seems plush and bountiful, or because they have some new notions and plans, and Florida seems like the kind of place where you can try anything, the kind of place that for centuries have made entrepreneur's mouths water. It is moldable, reinventable. It has been added to, subtracted from, drained, ditched, paved, dredged, irrigated, cultivated, wrested from the wild, restored to the wild, flooded, patted, set on fire. Things are always being taken out of Florida or smuggled in. The flow in and out is so constant that what exactly the state consists of is different from day to day. It is a collision of things you would expect to find together in one place--condominiums and panthers and raw woods and hypermarkets and Monkey Jungles and strip malls and superhighways and groves of carnivorous plants and theme parks and royal palms and hibiscus trees and those hot swamps with acres and acres that no one has ever even seen--al toasting together under the same sunny vault of Florida sky. Even the orchids of Florida are here in extremes. The woods are filled with more native species of orchids than anywhere else in the country, but also there are scores of man-made jungles, the hothouses of Florida, full of astonishing flowers and that have been created in labs, grown in test tubes, and artificially multiplies to infinity. Sometimes I think I've figured out some order of the universe, but then I find myself in Florida, swamped by incongruity and paradox, and I have to start all over again.

A chunky, satisfying paragraph that reinforces my desire to write. And to get back to Florida sometime to explore what else it's got besides broiling beaches and rollercoasters.

how did this happen?Thursday, October 24, 2002
03:55 p.m.
Somehow, through some burp in the laws of the universe, I have become a person who picks up her sandwich, then flips it over, making the bottom bun now the top one.

sweet releaseTuesday, October 22, 2002
02:24 p.m."...knowing that a sweet delicious taste and scent is coming from you, coming from within"

Sweet Release is a product, a pill, that functions to alter the taste of one's sexual fluids to that of Hard Apple (for men) and Soft Citrus (for women).

Now, we can all agree that the natural taste of men and women's sexual fluids is classified as acquired. But if a new boy I liked, and had a strong attraction to, allowed me to pleasure him and Hard Apple is what I got as a result, it might be his last licking. I dislike apples somewhat, I imagine Hard Apple semen I'd like infinitely less.

After you've discovered for yourself what a Five Fame Fuckers list is, feel free to report back your own. And use your head people, a lackluster Five Fame Fuckers list is very telling.

* * *

On a side note, I noticed one name that cropped up again and again in the dooce's comment fields where readers posted their lists, a name that irks me. Katie Holmes. An ex of mine found her the most adorable, fuckable being on the planet and apparently he wasn't alone. Katie Freaking Holmes. Feh.

you don't sayThursday, October 17, 2002
05:01 p.m.
Over margaritas with a couple of my friends from work, E. turns to A. and asks her to retrieve his wallet from his backpack, bitch. A looked him dead in the face, pulled out her own wallet and presented him with a card that read:

"Just because we slept together doesn't mean you can tell me what to do."

E.'s face dropped like bricks and A. laughed wildly, harder than I have ever seen her.

I was just privvy to some juicy gossip or I got in on an extra-private inside joke. Either way, that card was genius.

You just open the package, peel off the back of a large pad-like thing with little black discs beneath the surface and attach it to the front of your panties. Immediately the pad heats up to soothe your aching insides for, get this, eight full hours. I am now fully clothed and still enjoying the mild heat against my belly and no one is the wiser (besides you, of course, but I trust you won't tell.)

Off to buy more! (And, I swear, that will be the last mention of menstral cycles until, well, next month.)

that timeTuesday, October 15, 2002
05:29 p.m.
My stomach slopes outward, smooth and rounded like the shape my cheeks take on this week. My skin is tighter with the extra water beneath it giving it a shinier appearance than usual. I tire easily and spend a solid week napping, if even for a few moments, and feel sluggish, yet staggeringly sensual. My breasts swell, sensitive to the touch, and pull on my sweater in an attractive manner. The dull pain is ever present, in my lower back and lower middle. Headaches creep in at alarming speed, yet they are easily remedied with a Midol or two. Piping baths feel better than sex, a luxury of which I am now deprived. I take 20-minute soaks in the shower instead and place hot, hot washcloths on my belly.

I am touchy and easily offended this week, and chances are you may make me cry. Sarcasm is somehow lost on me for a few days, and I become irritatingly genuine. I want to know if I look as fat as I feel and goddamn you, there is nothing you can say that will make me not hate you for your answer. In the midst of the cramps and the tears I don't know it's all symptomatic, the fact that I'm blubbering over the Discovery Channel does not mean my sobs and snot aren't real.

I spend twice as much time in the bathroom. I pee every time the wind shifts, or I'm examining my pimpled face in a magnifying mirror. Or I'm contemplating how many of these are left, how many eggs was I allotted, whether all of this is for naught. Ebbing and flowing, this woman wishes to remain childless and her body is just going through the motions.

I'll buy a wig, black, in a bob cut and chop the bangs really short. I'll tattoo myself with a marker, a Chinese symbol or, better yet, an ankh. I'll buy up some too-small boys t-shirts at the thrift store and put on my wackiest socks.

I'll swoon over bands no one's heard of, that perhaps do not exist and smoke lots and lots of cigarettes.

stupid to the infinitieth powerTuesday, October 15, 2002
01:20 p.m.
Just after placing an order for a veal manhattan on the rocks (I, a little later, deduced she wanted Seagram's VO instead of baby bovine in the glass), Emily, one of the too many servers I work with who remain blissfully and willfully ignorant, asked me, "What is the deal with that Ground Zero thing? Have they caught all the guys they were looking for?"

spoiledSunday, October 13, 2002
10:44 p.m.
We went every year, my family, one of the few traditions our clan carried out. This is without a doubt due to sausages and endless tapped kegs. The Oktoberfest German festival is held annually in Nashville's downtown area one weekend in the month for which it is named. As a child I remember my grandparents beneath a tent they'd staked out early in the day with family members and friends dropping by to chat, or more accurately, slur. I am told my family is of German decent, hence our regular attendance, but I rather don't trust most of the lot and so I couldn't tell you for sure. I'd bet their is German ancestry in our line, but pride wasn't what brought them out each and every time.

I remember once my father, drunk on sundry spirits (though typically not a drinking man), plucked me off the ground against my protests, slinging me over his broad firefighter shoulder to accompany him into the street. I was to be his partner in the non-traditional chicken dance practiced at Oktoberfests the world over, the one involving the wiggling of one's ass and tucking of hands under armpits in an unconvincing effort to simulate a chicken wing, then flapping. I was mortified, 12, and (rightly) not drunk. I hated my father for what must have been a few hours after that.

Once a teen I stopped going because time spent with parents is better spent at their empty house in their unlocked basement with a cute boy and his tongue. I had even forgotten about the event until my ever-sweet sister reminded me, and we made plans to attend Saturday for the first time since we were of legal drinking age.

We awoke on the early side excited and gathered our belongings. I had my camera in tote, and she her camcorder. On the road on the way we passed a gorgeous hill where large plantations once stood and she told me of how in the mornings before the sun comes up, light shines down through the trees and onto the babbling stream like a flashlight shone through paper poked with pencils. I admired the lush green autumn grass before the cold turns it brown and shriveled. I ticked my tongue at the misfortune that the property was privately owned, then looked back to the road to see stopped cars just two car-lengths ahead, and I screamed out my sister's name. Amy slammed on her brakes which slowed us to perhaps 35 miles per hour before plowing into the vehicles ahead of us. I can't shake that sound, the awesome crack on impact that still makes me shudder upon recollection. I swear I thought we'd be hurt very badly before the crash actually happened, and was shocked to find no blood or glass or teeth strewn about. I did wonder what the hell kind of dust I was eating, a by-product of the airbags which saved my skull--and, delirious, worried maybe the car would be exploding soon. I pried open the door and wordlessly got out of the car to see if the occupants before us were safe.

They were and so were we, but the cars are another sad, crumpled story. The car Amy and I were in was to be my car, in less than thirty days, a tan Nissan Sentra I'd called only the day before my Little Rolls Royce.

There were no beers and there is no car, yet the shitstorm I've been under rages on. It is time to go totally Henry Rollins and embrace the pain.